Wednesday, 18 March 2015

It's been a while but here's Lucida Console 10. It took me three years. I wrote all the parts for it not knowing what for cuz I didn't really wanna make a zine. I was embarrased. Whatever, here it is and I'm pleased. I gave up using publisher 98 as a way of making zines, used word instead and made an easily downloadable PDF you can print off yourself. There's a donations button if you wanna pay like 50 pence. Or pay nothing. I don't mind. Have as many copies as you want.

The zine is made up of three main diaries:

1. Diary from the school I worked in as a learning support assistant 2011-2014
2. Work diary from last year when I worked every shitty job available thru temp agencies in Exeter and hated everything. Insightful if you're planning a career change.
3. A brief journal from this year working in the Midlands building a slide with some friends. I have accepted what life is and am happy now. :)

The other parts were written around those three times. Maybe you can see when they were written by syncing them up with the vibes of the diaries. Or maybe not.

Here's a snippet from it if you need a taster. It's a review of D H Lawrence's Women in Love and it's probably the best thing I have ever written.

Women in Love

DH Lawrence

It was with a faint flash of flirtatious
recklessness that Hubert passed the diamonte salt shaker to Tilda Grimpoke -
the youngest and brightest daughter of the local offal and slop magnate. As
Hubert’s moustache quivered mischievously in her direction, he suddenly caught
her eye and instantly regretted his licentious behavior. Her dark, violent eyes
pierced him through the heart like an ice cold dagger. He loved her. He hated
her. He hated love and humanity but he loved her none-the-less and she felt
exactly the same, in a fashion. Tilda gently passed her fingers over the salt
shaker in a delicate movement that broke the terrible impasse between the two
lovers. She seemed in no haste to season her fishy supper which sat before her
in stifling indignation. Her subtle reassurances electrified Hubert’s entire
being onto a mystical plane where the very concept of love became meaningless.
It was something beyond love. In this wonderous plane he could tenderly kiss a
tree as if it were a human. In this perfect vision he would marry a blackbird.
The thought of human marriage became hateful to him. Men and women stagnated by
their little insular lives, where no one else was allowed to enter and their
pointless possessions blinded them to their own pointless existences. How was
he to convince Tilda that together they should move beyond love? Even the
thought of explaining the concept to her seemed quite impossible – he didn’t
really know what he meant by it himself. Even if he were to have about 400
pages of novel to express himself, he still wouldn’t be able provide a
satisfactory answer. Suddenly he was bought back to reality by the sing-song
voice of Miss Miffy Pifflewhiff, “Hubert my dear little metaphysical chap, how
is work at the new phosphorescent pigshit power station?” He groaned inwardly,
nauseated to the core by such banal, “rank and file” questions. “The sheer
mechanized horror of it all makes my soul puke, you insufferable trout!” he thought
to himself. “Oh, you know...” he replied noncommittally. He turned back to
Tilda, he knew his future lay with her... She seemed to emit a life-sustaining
light from behind her burning black eyes. He became aware of the rude blood
carousing about his veins like a drunken sailor on shore leave. She sensed the
sensual change in his person and became extremely sensuous. She did a big
swoon, possibly the biggest swoon she’d ever done. It was as if their beautiful
crystalline minds were bound by an esoteric tether and simultaneously they
screamed “FUCK MANKIND!” And that dear reader is Women in Love in a
nutshell.

Saturday, 26 October 2013

Hello? I have been having some time off. I have been concentrating more on my addiction to booze and killing my brain. Writing is hard when you feel like 100 pounds of shit. I have nothing to say any more. The times between being hungover, being at work and being drunk again are a very narrow window with which to write anything. Plus...plus nothing. Issue 10 of Lucida Console will be out by the end of the year. Live free cunts.

Supernatural Big Hitters

By Slater Wilcox

Fuck that shitty TV show
“SUPERNATURAL”, to me supernatural means DEMONS flying into your bedroom at midnight to TOUCH YOU UP and make you scream for MORE. To me, supernatural means
sitting in a graveyard until a HELLHOUND humps your FACE and shoots ectoplasmic
dog spunk out your EYEBALLS. To me, supernatural means becoming so fed up with
real life that only make believe can take your mind off of the ambivalence you
feel towards mankind. People can find out just about anything with the touch of
a few buttons, the world is being narrowed down and condensed. However,
sometimes…weird thoughts come creeping into your mind when you’re all by
yourself in the middle of a dark forest with no motherfuckin’ 3G. You start to panic.
“What if The X Files was right all along?! Is The Truth out here?! I fuckin’
hope not!” You close your eyes but your thoughts are much darker than the
night could ever be. Screaming Skulls, Egyptian Curses, the beady eye of a
Crow, Death cults, Psychic Visions of Doom…Is that a common elder tree you’re
leaning against, trying to get your breath back? The same common elder that
Judas hanged himself on? The same common elder associated with devil worship
and witchcraft? God’s sake don’t burn it for warmth – Satan will appear! Is
that a man pouding his way towards you through the murkiness? Or is it a
hallucination? Bite the bullet, baby, this shit’s all in your mind. Mystery is
cool. Sometimes the World is too real for me, at least back in the day we had
Satan to blame, nowadays we all know that it’s human beings that are completely fucked. So leave your skepticism
and scientific rationale at the door, here’s my all time favourite supernatural
bullshittery: X files up your ASS.

Black Mass

A magical ceremony,
an inversion or parody of the Catholic Mass for the purpose of making fun of
God and worshipping the Devil; a rite that was said to involve human sacrifice
as well as blasphemy and obscenity of horrific proportions. You won’t be eating
bread and drinking wine at this fucked up Eucharist; instead how about a cum-covered
wafer washed down with a skullful of virgin’s piss? Sounds fun? Then stick
around for the roasted flesh canapés and frenzied buggery orgy. Like after
dinner games, do you like fucking After
Eights? Then try reading the Bible backwards with a mouthful of burnt baby
mixed with the priest’s poo. Feeling a little woozy, too much partying? Pussy.

Dance of Death

An
allegorical attitude to the final crisis in human life – Death as a grotesque
skeleton leading all men and women to the inevitable grave, a theme popular in
Medieval art. Death is having the best dance party and you’re all invited –
even the dickheads and racists. Tough shit if you don’t wanna go to Death’s
party – you’re all coming along whether you like dancing or not, and tomorrow,
for once, we won’t be hungover – we’ll be dead.

Crowley, Aleister

Magician,
occult practitioner, author and poet, mountaineer, drug addict, ambisexual athlete,
and devout POOMAN. A guy after my own heart – the guy was obsessed with shit.
At his Abbey of Thelema on Sicily he set up a place to practice his love of
pooh, thinly disguised as a centre for occultist study. While there, he and his
followers got up to all sorts of rotten business, here’s little extract from
his biography recounting a normal evening in the abbey: “She called his bluff and demanded the ‘Eucharist’ – that Crowley should eat her
excrement which lay on the consecrated plate on the altar. Crowley finally obeyed: “My
mouth burned, my throat choked, my belly retched, my blood fled wither who
knows and my skin sweated. She stood above me hideous in contempt…” All this,
in a word, I am a coward and a liar.” Later in the chapter you learn that Crowley and his High Priestess have a child
on the Island and call it “Poupee”.

Demonology

I have
decided to name my niece and nephew Ashtaroth and Baphomet. My neice, Ashtaroth
is the great nature Goddess of love and fruitfulness, also the “most impure and
revolting being that can be imagined”. My nephew Baphomet AKA pooh boy, is the
source and creator of evil; the satanic billy goat – he likes to wipe his ditry
pooh bum on sofas. Truly demonic. Demons don’t exist but humans do.

Deja Vu

I feel like
I’ve been living the same life for 28 years now. Shit upon shit upon shit upon
shit. Déjà vu’s aren’t “out of the ordinary” it’s just the way life is – a snake
made of turds eating itself endlessly. Where does it begin? Where does it end?
Who cares – it’s all made of shit.

Vampires

Bram
Stoker’s Dracula was THE SHIT. I remember I kept having nightmares after
reading it and I’d quite often waking up screaming in the night. It got inside
my psyche and made my brain squirm like a toad all night long. I truly believe
it to be a powerful book. I liked the Francis Ford Copolla film version of the
book when that girl puked about 20 pints of blood into a man’s face but it was
slightly over the top and disgusting. Other than that they’re pretty goofy. They
remind me of cats because they’re self centered and don’t give a shit about
anything and I think they are vain poo-poo heads. Don’t suck my blood,suck my
dick. However, Buffy the Vampire Slayer entertained me through those bleak teen
years and kept my mind off suicide. I appreciate vampires for that, thanks
suckers.

Nymph

From Wikipedia: A nymph inGreek mythologyand inLatin mythologyis
a minor female nature deity babe typically associated with a particular
location or landform, they are double barreled fuck shotguns ready to blow your
face off with pump-action sexiness. There are 5 different types of nymphs,
Celestial Nymphs (far-out space nymphs), Water Nymphs (splashy splashy cum
guzzlers), Land Nymphs, Plant Nymphs and Underworld Nymphs and I’d fuck ‘em all.
Different from goddesses, nymphs are generally regarded as divine spirits who
animate nature by giving it an uncontrollable hard on, and are usually depicted
as beautiful, youngnubilemaidens who love to dance and sing and threaten men
with nunchucks. They are believed to dwell in mountains andgroves, by springs and rivers,
and also in trees and in valleys and coolgrottoes
where they are almost always totally nude and
have excellently trimmed bushes. Definitely an old world myth made up by some
randy Greek but I still hold out hope that one day, one glorious day in the
dreamy future, I’ll meet a nymph and It’ll be magNYMPHicent. Ha!

Necrophilia

Face it,
humans will try to fuck you until you die, so if they try to fuck you after you
die, who gives a fuck?

Urology

Now, I
don’t know much about urology other than that it’s a sick and sordid black art
practiced by perverted professors of piss-drinking. Not really sure what goes
on in the urology wings of hospitals but I am willing to hazard a guess as to
what it’s all about – trying to predict the future by studying a person’s piss.
Piss divination if you will.

Thursday, 14 February 2013

Every time I go back home I have a sense of having not done anything with my life, which is partially true. Like Henry Miller once said, we'd all be better off if home just existed like a picture postcard in the back of our minds which we shouldn't be tempted to go back to. I regularly go back to Plymouth and the area of North Cornwall I grew up in. I normally end up walking around by myself and every corner I turn invokes a different memory and an awful feeling. A feeling of regret and emptiness. I need to move on. Anyway, I did one last trip around Plymouth on a wretchedly hungover Sunday morning in January and visited all the places around Plymouth Hoe which ever meant anything to me in years gone by. I took a "trip down memory lane" and ended up feeling suicidal. It was horrible.

Plymouth Hoe: An empty carrier bag blowing towards the camera. No one else is around and there was a fierce wind.. Sir Frances Drake was bowling up here when the Spanish Armada invaded in the 1600's. I learnt to Rollerblade up here in the early 90's. My mum bought me my Rollerblades from the free ads; they were white leather with green wheels, they were obviously made for girls and I don't want to think about it any more.

Plymouth Dome: I never knew what was in here and then it shut down. It's been shut down since about 2000 and nothings been done with it. Every time I look it I feel like it's 1993 and I've just gone to see Jurassic Park with my dad and sister. I guess it reminds me of the foyer in Jurassic park where the skeletons of the dinosaurs are hanging from the ceiling. I hate this place. It makes me feel old and sad, like my youth is dead and the future is a derelict building with no plans of regeneration

War memorial: Skated here when I was 15. I remember a scene in Flatspot skate video happening here. An old Plymouthian lady, a relic from WWII Plymouth tells the guys skating, "I used to be a nurse...one little slip and you'll be paralysed for life...silly...silly boys". That was filmed about 1995. Why am I here thinking about it?

I met a girl on a date here last year. We sat in that shelter for about two hours and talked. The view overlooks Plymouth Sound. We had a two hour conversation and I think I was in love. I hold this shelter in fond memory. Later on we walked along the Hoe in the dark, there was no one around, it was windy as it always is, but we felt safe. The romance was doomed but sometimes I walk past here and think, "things happen in places that no one will ever know."

I had never seen this before but I like it. It's Poseidon stabbing some wretched sea beast with the blunt end of his trident. What a horrid way to die.

I once spent a night with a girl in the block of housing at the end of the Holiday Inn. She occupied the top floor window. She's gone back to Sweden now. Nothing happened that night I spent with her. I didn't feel in a sexual mood and instead we played crystal healing with her vast crystal collection. In the morning I woke up with an erection but quickly dismissed it. I gave her my tie-dyed shirt and we spent the day drinking on the hoe. I never saw her again.

I hate looking up this street in this direction. The hollow white light at the brow of the hill makes me think it's 1999. People are into nu-metal and I am trying to skate, but I suck. But if I look for long enough I realise that everyone I grew up with has moved away and probably never even listen to Limp Bizkit anymore and I'm here by myself.

For me this sums up Plymouth: a cracked pavement of faded pink and grey paving slabs from the post war reconstruction of the city. It's sad and endearing. It makes me want to drink and see my firends. I used to skate down these pavements and slam on my face every time I reached a section like this. So many pointless memories. I wish I could erase them.

I've walked down here hundreds of times but I've never been happy.

A reflection of the Civic Centre. Lots of this that I don't wish to recall happened in the shadow of this buildng. How morose.

I used to skate here all the time. A set of two steps outside the magistrates court. Where's everybody now? Dead? No, shopping in Drake's Circus shopping centre or at home. The play grounds of my youth are desolate wastelands and I'm hungover.

The train ride back to Exeter. My favourite view in Plymouth - the Plym Estuary at twilight. Lovely.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

The Bi-o:
Keanu Fizzy Prince Reeves was born in 1969, just off the side of the main stage at Woodstock where his parents were working as full-time crusty fuck-ups. At the time his mother, Wizardsleeves Reeves, was experiencing a hellfire trip on brown acid and wasn't sure if she'd just given birth or if she'd just hallucinated it. She was later quoted saying, "Just as Jimi Hendrox started jamming out some bona fide riffage I had the unpleasant sensation that I'd just dropped my guts but then I felt something clawing at my leg...I slowly looked down and there was a fuckin' blood soaked gremlin shrieking at my feet! I nearly lost my shit...I had no idea that I was pregnant with Keanu."Many have speculated that it was this early rocking and rolling experience that had a major impact on Keanu, who later went on to play bass guitar in a band very few people cared about.

His childhood years were a whirlwind of glue-sniffing and cheap pussy. At his kindergarden in Toronto he would often be seen doing chin-ups on the monkey bars whilst the rest of his classmates drank warm milk and played stink finger. Many of his teachers struggled with his rockstar persona and letters home would become a normal part of the Reeves household. In the final year of junior high he would keep his Ray-Bans on in the classroom and would proclaim education to be "jerk-off bullshit for dorks". It was this appetite for drama that inspired him thumb it down to California and "make it big" in Hollywood aged only 12. He vowed never to go back to Toronto, saying he'd wasted too much time there already.

However, life in Hollywood wasn't easy for Reeves and he quickly learnt that in order to make it BIG, first you had to make it BI. Amazingly it was his natural skill at turning tricks that led to his first big break: a lead role along side Rivers Phoenix in the movie My Own Private Idaho which documented the lives of two young hustlers in LA, gettin' laid just to survive -a theme prevalent in almost all of Reeves' films to date. This lucky break, which came off the back of a chance meeting in a bathroom stall, led to Reeves coining the well known Hollywood phrase, "It's not who you know, it's who you blow."
After this surprising smash hit, box-office-big-boy Keanu's life became a non-stop roller coaster ride of "excellent adventures" and "bogus journeys". For every crowd pleasing Point Break there came a cinematic shitstorm like Johnny Mnemonic. Disillusioned with show business Reeves decided to become your "Average Joe"; much to the disarray of his loyal fans who were craving more of his studly manner. Not to be dissuaded by any man, he got an office job, a small apartment and shed his most famous asset - that rock star ego. He settled his new life but soon enough he was back at his weird old way, getting up to no-good punk-rock shit. Growing tired with his 9-5 life he soon found escape in the internet and developed an unhealthy interest in hacking. Before long he was rubbing people up the wrong way and eventually got involved in some fuckin' crazy computer bullshit which lead to his biggest box office hit to date - a documentary of his attempts to lead the life of an "Average Joe" between the years 1999 and 2003 called The Matrix.The Romance and further bio.
Reeves is a unashamed whore and has had an incredible amount of relationships, been linked to bizarre occultist sex orgies and has had more STDs than James Bond and Jim Morrison combined. However, the most shockingly fact about Reeves' love-life is the brevity of his relationships - most lasting for just an hour and a half. His longest and most memorable relationship occurred in 1989 on the set of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Alex Winters (Bill) and Reeves were literally seeing double when they met up with "the babes" in Ye Olde England whilst on their famous time-travelling pussy binge. Reeves and Winters were so taken with the pair of princesses that they by-passed all formalities and decided to fucking kidnap them! Not before singing them Poison's Every Rose Has It's Thorn of course ...and who says romance is dead! Sadly for Reeves, the pair only stuck together until 1991, when Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey was filmed. The "babe" Fraizer Bane, later claimed that Keanu had never actually bothered to learn her real name, and moreover she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with her role in Wlyd Stallyns as "keyboard babe". The relationship was doomed and they split up just after post production. The wild plains of romance were desolate for many years, with only Lori Petty from Point Break and Carrie-Anne Moss from The Matrix to satiate Reeves' thirst for hard fucking. It was during this bleak time in his life when he was snapped by paparazzi mongoloids trying to enjoy a sandwich on a park bench by himself which led to an internet meme called "Sad Keanu" which poked fun of his inability to sustain a long and meaningful relationships. Many people ignored the fact that Reeves had revolutionised the internet during the Average Joe period (1999-2003) of his life and used the medium to repeatedly stab him in the back...and in the heart.

Fed up with the persona he had created for himself, he decided to time travel back to India, 1928 in search of some class A, untainted pussy. Whilst trekking though the mountains of Karakoram he touched some fragments of ancient Alien shit and was reborn Klaatu. In turn, another Keanu Reeves documentary was born - The Day the Earth Stood Still. It was during this time that he met his true love - Jennifer Connelly. The documentary culminated with Reeves' making the biggest decision of his life - eat Jennifer Connnelly's pussy, or die. Luckily for us, Reeves chose to die. He saved mankind from itself and now exists as a thin layer of gas surrounding Planet Earth.The Films
Bill and Teds's Excellent Fucking Adventure (1989)
Bill and Teds's Bogus Fucking Journey (1991)
Much Ado About Fucking Nothing (1993)
My Own Private Fucking Idaho (1993)
Johnny Mnenofuckingmonic (1997)
The Fucking Matrix (1999)
The Day The Fucking Earth Stood Still (2008)

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

Standing in a blackened forest which stretches for as far as the eye can see, I have the strange sensation that I'm suddenly going to fly off somewhere and do something awful. Next thing I've shot off across the dark tree tops at a terrible speed. Taking an abrupt dive straight into the jagged mouth of a cave and winding far down deep into the Earth I swiftly arrive at the gates of hell. Once there, I know what I have to do - open these Gaddamned gates and release something good and shitty on the generation of swine inhabiting the Planet. I am a little apprehensive and decide to only open them for an hour. Using my incredibly powerful psychic brain I manage to open the hell portal; I feel horrified and excited and I know this is very naughty. Out of the reddish brown rock a grim little demon face appears and I start to feel like shitting myself - there is the sense of something unfeeling and massively violent behind me. Whipping around like maddened dog, I am faced with a naked Anne Hathaway with a ugly looking strap-on dildo dangling between her legs. She has mean, sexy eyes but I feel no fear; just a sexually confused awkwardness, like a dumb teenager. Those mean, sexy eyes shoot straight past me and fix upon the half-crazed, fully nude demon-girl who has also appeared in the hot, dusty cave. Demon Anne Hathaway wastes no time and is soon pumping the Demon girl senseless with her swarthy strap-on and although the sex is vicious and Satanic, the tenderness between the two is obvious. The Demon girl asks to reduce the size of the strap-on and Anne does so immediately, psychotelekenetically. The two writhe on the ground in ecstasy and the cave becomes unbearably hot with sticky heat, sweat and pure Satanic lust - salt stings my eyes but I can't turn away, yet at no point do I feel I can join in. I stand there awkwardly aware of the fact that Demon Anne Hathaway is doing a far better job than I ever could in twenty thousand life times of sexual experience. I am small in both mind and penis. The two Demons pay me no heed, their screams of pleasure of deafening and shrinking me mentally and physically. The strap-on plunges in and out non-stop and it has started glowing red with a furious heat - the Demon girl's orgasm is powerful: a torrent of Demonic juices. They have finished and lay in a panting pile. I start to realise how inconsequential my every action is, life is worthless and I am less than a fart. They start to laugh and vapourise - the portal has been open for an hour and they are vanishing back to their own dimension. I turn away, rest my forehead against the cave wall and start to cry. No one is here now and I am despondent and desperately alone. I paid the price for opening the gates of hell, I have been made to feel utterly non-existent by Anne Hathaway and her strap-on. I have experienced Hell and now I have a long walk home.

Monday, 20 August 2012

The internet is a tremendously good place for dumping trash, so i am going to use this modern privilege to take a massive metaphorical dump on this blog. This following piece of writing sucks. I wrote it in December 2011 to impress a girl. Reading over it makes me wince and want to be swallowed up in an elephant's asshole. However, in the interest of artistic clarity and expressing the right to post tedious dogshit on the internet, I present you with a short work of fiction about being on the dole for so long the world ends. Fuck this bullshit and fuck the dole!

P.S. I am currently planning a new issue of Lucida Console which should hopefully be out early next year, it'll contain lots of joyous appreciation of the grotty things in life. I love a bit of muck me.

The Derelict

A post-apocalyptic dole
drama in one act

By Slater Wilcox

Scene one

A shabby looking young man
walks through some nuclear wastelands looking rather bemused by everything
around him. This was obviously the town he lived in but it’s completely fucking
destroyed and melted. He pauses for a moment and looks fondly at the smouldering
remains of a chip shop, and wistfully mutters to himself “…chippy tea…” It’s
hard to tell if he’s heartbroken or really, really stupid.

He stands there lost in thought
for far longer than necessary. He looks from side to side, up and down the
remains of the street “umming” and “ahhing” to himself. He is obviously a
dreadfully confused young man. He turns and starts to walk in one direction. As
soon as he has taken his first step he decides against it and turns to walk
back where he came from. After walking for a short distance he abruptly turns
to walk back the other way again. His face bears the signs of great mental
anguish; of all his own doing, of course. He is wasting valuable time and the audience
resents him already.

There is dry, bitter wind
which bites at his face and eyes. It blows about the nuclear ash, dust and grit
of razed buildings and cremated humans. The odd young man flips his collar up,
stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets, puts his head down and strides along
at a spanking rate through the derelict wastelands. From his stern countenance
and determined pace it’s obvious he has somewhere fairly important to be. He
draws out one hand and checks his watch. 11:20AM. He pulls out his JSA log book and double checks it. His name is David
and he is due to sign on in five minutes.

“Fuck!” He yelps, like a
spanked terrier. The skeleton of the town hall crumbles away to his left. He
barely notices. There is a gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach which has
been there for several days.

He slips off the street and
down a narrow alleyway between the remains of two houses. His strides are long
and impressive, but his resemblance of a two legged spider gives him a sad air
of absurdity. Suddenly a thunderous “WOOF!” cuts through the silence startling David
to a halt. It’s obvious to him that this was not a friendly woof as it sounded rather
like some mean CANINE FUCKERS. The terrifying “WOOF!” sounds again. Strangely, David
doesn’t look scared but more like he has suffered some minor inconvenience.

Through the fence on his
left we see two large, all-white dogs patrolling a dirt yard, walking in large,
sweeping circles. Each of their paws rise and fall in magnificent synchronicity,
not one second out of time. Their breed is quite difficult to identify but they
are most certainly some well trained man-maulers whose beauty is only equalled
by their blood lust. The viewer assumes them to be some freaky post-apocalyptic
crossbreed with the IQ of a human. The recent nuclear fall out has scrambled
their beastly dogbrains and they would like nothing more than to gnash and gnaw
upon young David, reducing him to a sloppy pile of giblets. They are sadistic
hounds, and in their eyes he looks like one big juicy sausage. They shoot at
him piercingly cruel glances, chops salivating, and continue to march around
the yard in perfect formation.

Pausing for a moment and
bravely peering thru the fence, David studies them closely. Down the side of
one of the hounds someone has crudely spray painted “FUK OFF” and upon the
other one “HARDCORE”. The handwriting is large and uneven and David looks at
them rather disapprovingly. He stares at them going around in circles for far
long than he should. Have the hounds put him into an oscillating dog trance?

A noise behind him snaps him
out of his canine captivation. “Fuck a horseshit!” he exclaims loudly. “Damn
dogs, I’m going to miss my appointment!”

David makes the movements to
leave but a man in a dirty, torn suit is blocking his way. He has also been
ensnared by the terrible white dogs and stands there with his mouth open
watching the hounds go round and round and round.

Slightly pissed off with the
whole business, David clears his throat and asks the man to move out of the
way. He doesn’t respond.

“Ahem, excuse me… I don’t
suppose you could let me by. I’m late for a meeting and it’s quite essential I,
ahh, get there sharpish. Now if you wouldn’t mind.”

David brushes past the man,
who falls to the ground like a withered old bag of fuck. David stops and
profusely apologises until he realises the poor fellow has only just regained
consciousness. He stands above him and casts his eye upon this curious person.
The businessman looks rather preposterous - laid down in the mud in his
crumpled suit, bald head, groaning to himself about some old “end of the world”
rubbish.

David looks up and sighs.
“Lost his marbles…” He hastily turns to leave.

All of a sudden the man
leaps up and grasps David by the collar. He has a wild look in his eye and his
bald head shines in a most eye-pleasing way. His lips are trembling and his
mouth is open expectantly.

“What the hell do you want?!
I’m going to be late, let me go!” Gasps David, his voice full of panic.

The man lets him go and
looks horrified.

“Where do you have to be?!”
he asks David in wide eyed terror.

“I have to go and sign on! I
won’t get my dole money if I’m late again!” All the while David gestures
frantically with his hands, his face growing red. He takes a pause and speaks
with a new air of resigned despair. “I’m absolutely broke, hungry, and
thoroughly pissed off with all this nonsense. I just want my dole money.”

The air is still and
everyone feels utter sympathy for David.

“HAHAHA!” The
bald businessman’s hearty laughter shatters the sympathetic silence. He stands
there holding his stomach, having a wonderful time at David’s expense. David
looks rather put out and dejected.

“Oh piss off you fruitcake!
Can a fellow not keep his dignity while on JSA? Why should I have to endure
being laughed at by some fatcat business bastard with too much money and a
fucking bald head?! Go to hell!” He starts to walk away more determined than
ever.

The businessman suppresses
his laughter for a moment and stops him. “Haha, hold on, wait! Are you
serious?! Haha! The job centre isn’t there anymore!”

This takes David by surprise
but he obviously believes the business man is insane. “What? Well, where’s it
gone then?”

“Look around you!” The
business man makes a wide sweep of his arm, highlighting the nuclear
devastation wrought upon the city that David had been so unaware of for the
past 20 minutes.

David stands there gawping
at his surrounding for a while, before attempting to construct some words that
made sense in this ludicrous situation. “Does this mean I’m not getting my dole
money?” he whispered feebly.

The Businessman let out
another hearty laugh. “Young man, are you absolutely mental? Jobseekers
allowance doesn’t exist anymore! Nothing does! You can’t receive your dole
money because society has been reduced to a radioactive dust carried on a toxic
wind. If you don’t believe me, how do you explain that?” With one of his fat
fingers he points to a haggard old woman further down the alley. She is busying
herself arranging several sheets of seethru material out on a table in front of
her. A spraypainted sign hangs limply above her, “HUMAN SKIN JACKETS!” The
handwriting is large and uneven.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

"Croyde Bay has to be one of the finest surfing beaches in the
U.K. producing high quality barrels throughout the tide, low tide being
the best and the most powerful and dangerous. Low tide is definitely
not for beginners or intermediates! Even medium size low tide will break
boards and bones." - Some bullshit surfer website www.pussywimpsurfer.co.uk or something.

Bleary eyed and stinkin of shit, I rushed from the house across town towards the train station. I was a man possessed, I needed a HOT SCOOP and I needed it quick. I wanted a juicy story full of the most derelict and dirty characters. I was a master journalist on a quest for truth, justice, and perhaps...romance? I already knew where my fucking red hot scoop was to be uncovered - Croyde Bay, North Devon. Surfers paradise or locals-only boneyard? Beautiful Devonshire holiday destination or drug-fuelled coastal town full of the worst whores? To get to the bottom of this mystery I boarded a train up to Barnstaple, where my contact for this investigation would pick me up and take me to Croyde. I sat on the train and stared out of the window, a million thoughts rushed through my mind, how was I going to get to the bottom of this without dying? Had I gone too far this time in the name of journalism? Was I going to kill myself for THE TRUTH?! If that's what it takes...YES. I thought about Croyde's reputation as being the heaviest surf in the UK. Those heavy motherfucker waves will pummel you into a mush formerly known as human. I thought about the end of Point Break where Bodhi kills himself in the surf. It was his life, his passion.

"come on man, it's the storm of the century!"

Patrick Swayze's noble face flashed through my mind and I knew I had to do this or forever be a second rate master journalist.

"You want the ultimate thrill? You gotta be willing to pay the ultimate price."

Patrick's face faded from my thoughts and I suddenly felt alone. I hadn't gotten a piece of tail in over five months. I have forgotten what it's like to touch another human being. Grow up man, love is dead to you, all that matters now is ice cold investigative journalism. Fuck love, it's for sentimental slopsters. Save it for the life stories in the tabloids; I walk this path alone.My contact picked me up from the train station, by way of greeting he stuck his middle finger up at me out of his window. His van was a trashed old Renault with "KOOK" crudely spray painted down the side panel. Goddamn surf punks, I knew this was only going to get tougher and weirder.We drove for twenty minutes along the Devon coast towards Croyde. Real fuckin' pretty area with loads of great looking people milling about like there ain't any corrupt mysterious shit going on whatsoever. Infact, these motherfuckers look like they're on their summer holidays! We get back to my contact's house where I am to stay overnight. From here on I whipped out my trusty note pad and scribbled down notes trying to catch any tasty journalistic morsel that might drip out of these wild guy's mouths.Arrived five twenty five. This place seems nice. Too nice.The accommodation is very interesting indeed - and old barn with a side that bulges out into the road. It's soon to be demolished. My contact sleeps in here underneath a swallows nest - they shit on him and he loves it. It's dusty and there's woodlouse assholes on my mattress in the corner. Fuckers.The main house - owned by the local pot dealer's parents and inhabited by nine of his friends who pay £20 a week to live there. One guy sleeps in the bath tub.My buddy senses I am nervous and he pulls out a peace pipe and packs it with homegrown weed. We smoke it in his barn. Amongst his meagre possessions are a massive set of barbells. He tells me that he wants to "get high and strong". I laugh. The weed is second to none. Delicious.

We sit around smoking more pipes and talking about drugs. The other housemate who lives in the bathtub comes outside to join us - it's immediately obvious that this guy doesn't trust me. He makes snide comments and treats me with an icy contempt. One to watch out for. Part 2: Cowabunga Dude.

We walk down to the beach for a surf. I am high as fuck. Everybody is leaving the beach. The mist shrouds the bay making it impossible to see out there. What's happening? We ask a couple of little Fido-Dido surf fucks what the hell is up - they tell us someone drowned, the beach had been evacuated because the rip currents were too strong and the fog was making it hard to rescue people. I get a case of WEED PARANOIA my friend reassures me, "If you drown I'll personally come and save you."I am given a 9ft foam long board - the tool with which to prove myself amongst these fat dudes, once they see me carve the waves they'll spill the beans. I paddle out into the water at Croyde at low tide, its fuck-heavy reputation doesn't scare me and I shred effortlessly. However, none of the locals warm to me. I am spat on three times and told to go home back to Cornwall. Even my host becomes embarrassed of this journalist he has bought out with him and tries to hold my head under to drown me!

The session ends, it's dark, night has fallen I am still alive and I have uncovered the truth: Surfing Croyde is for sissies.

We go back to the house and get really really high, I travel time and space. Somewhere through the weed haze I know that tomorrow I will wake up a master journalistagain.

Part 3: Romance?

I wake up in the barn with a woodlouse on my pillow, my brain feels fluffy and I need to fuckin skeedaddle out of here before I loose my mind. I say good by to my friend and thank him for a nice time, a delicious dinner, a fun surf, and a fantastic all night pot party. I say good bye to the housemate who hated me and he displays the up most indifference to my departure.

One the bus back to Barnstaple I meet an amazing redhead head on the back of the bus. She is dressed like a hippy and she looks like she can read a crystal ball, I imagine her to have a most fantastic ginger bush. I sit in my seat and fantasise about running away and joining a carnival with her, our travels would take us all over the world but our hearts would always remain in Croyde with the pussy surfers. When I came to from my reverie she was gone and I was at the train station, alone again. If it's one thing I know for sure, it's this - I smoked way too much yesterday.

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Urgent Info

This is the online version of the fanzine - LUCIDA CONSOLE.
In recent years it's been a place to post scraps from old zines, previews from new zines, and articles which will never appear anywhere else because they are cringeworthy, depressing, or downright dogshit.
Right now this blog is secondary to my pursuit of the ultimate truth - what is the human agenda? The blog is updated infrequently because I'm too busy getting OUT THERE getting answers. Lucida Console issue 10 is out now and documents all my findings from 2013 to 2015. You can download a PDF of the issue in the March 2015 post. Alternatively you can come and find me and buy one. There may even be some in a zine distro near you right now.
LIVE LONG AND PERSPIRE!